


hers, now (he surrenders)

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [17]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Begging, Dirty Talk, Dry Orgasms, F/M, Fingering, Fluff, Pegging, Post-Game, Praise Kink, Sex Magic, Smut, fem!dom, multiple male orgasms, slight domesticity kink i suppose?, striptease, sub!Julian, the first 3k words are just julian being a dork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15304728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: Ever since they had begun this life together (since they had cleared his name, and she had taken it as her own) all of Julian’s comings and goings have been announced, loudly and lavishly. His parting kisses practically pull her out the door with him, his hands on her waist, his mouth around hers, ‘I will return soon.’ His greetings are no less spectacular. It matters not whether she is up to her elbows in dish soap, or ringing up a customer in the shop; it matters not how filthy she is, nor who might be around to witness. Always, it is the same: he finds her, wherever she is, and sweeps off of her feet and into his arms as easily as he always has, peppering her neck and her cheek with kisses, sighing, sweetly, ‘yes, here is my wife.’





	hers, now (he surrenders)

 

She knows something is up the minute he comes sneaking home. The clack of his boots is subdued, the rhythm of his footsteps cautious and discreet; the front door closes with a muted _click_ instead of the usual slam.

Ever since they had begun this life together (since they had cleared his name, and she had taken it as her own) all of Julian’s comings and goings have been announced, loudly and lavishly. His parting kisses practically pull her out the door with him, his hands on her waist, his mouth around hers, ‘ _I will return soon_.’ His greetings are no less spectacular. It matters not whether she is up to her elbows in dish soap, or ringing up a customer in the shop; it matters not how filthy she is, nor who might be around to witness. Always, it is the same: he finds her, wherever she is, and sweeps off of her feet and into his arms as easily as he always has, peppering her neck and her cheek with kisses, sighing, sweetly, ‘ _yes, here is my wife._ ’

But today, when he enters, he does not bellow her name, or search the halls of their home for her. He deadens the door so that it closes with just a clip, instead of a bang; his footsteps on the threshold are soft and inconspicuous.

What is he hiding, she wonders?

Her curiosity draws Aredhel to the foyer to greet him. When she finds Julian, he is hunched over, standing one one leg with a hand pressed to the wall to steady himself, trying—and failing—to tug his boot off his leg. Under his breath, he curses impatiently as he fights to peel the leather shaft of the boot down past his knees.

A warm smile draws the corners of Aredhel’s mouth upward. She cannot help but think of all those months ago, when she had danced around the edge of Portia’s modesty screen only to find Julian hopelessly tangled in the servant’s uniform his sister had lent him. The weight of those days no longer hangs on her so heavily; she can look back at them with fondness, now, and not pain. Certainly not regret.

(She did not know, then, that things would work out alright; she could not foresee the great wealth of happiness in store for them.)

She leans against the wall, arms folded over her apron. “No kisses, today?” she asks, but her tone is light, teasing.

Julian spins to face her so quickly he nearly trips over his own legs, bent as they are with the sleeve of the boot still tangled around his ankle. 

“Aredhel!” 

His mouth splits into a smile, but is not the look of unbridled joy he typically favors her with; the curve of his grin betrays a rare moment of self-consciousness. She follows his eyes as they dart nervously to a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and twine, resting on the floorboards at his feet.

“What’s this?” she asks, bending down to pick it up. It is just smaller than a shoebox, but it is light in her hands.

“No, wait, don’t—!” Julian begins, reaching frantically for the parcel. Aredhel’s hands hover away from the knotted twine, waiting for permission. 

(If he would have her wait, she will wait.)

But then Julian sighs, his hands falling back to his boot. After flashing her a sheepish smile, he seizes the sole and resumes pulling it off of his leg. “Well, I suppose there’s no hiding it, now. I, uh… it was meant to be a surprise. A present, really.”

“For me?” Aredhel asks, raising her hand to cover her heart in feigned shock. They often dote on one another, but the favors they trade are not the kind that come wrapped and packaged: flowers picked from the fields, the last taste of wine in the bottle, coffee brought back into the warmth of their bed. Still, it does not surprise her; for as long as she has known him, Julian has always been thoughtful, and generous.

His leg successfully freed from his boot, Julian stands, half-barefoot in the foyer, watching her with keen (if anxious) interest. “Well, it’s, uhh… maybe, _mostly_ , a present for me. But it's for us, to use. If you want to.” He crosses his arms over his chest, fingers flexing on his forearms. “Go on. Open it.”

That piques her interest. Her fingers find the knot of the twine, and begin to untangle it. Then, she unfolds the paper, pulls the lid from the box, and peers inside….

Julian breaks the silence first. His speech is hasty, backpedaling, “Of course, if you don’t like it—I know we've talked about it, but if it's, uhh, _haha_ , too soon—naturally, I mean, I would not _impose_ —”

But his trepidation is baseless. They have talked about this, they have… touched one another, while talking about this. 

(They have come—hard enough to leave them both shaking after—as they have touched one another while talking _precisely_ about this.)

Her silence stems not from the fact that she does not like the surprise, but rather that she likes it _too much_. If she is quiet it is only because the sight of the gift demands such control of her. If she opens her mouth too soon it may only fall upon his, a tree toppled in a strong wind, and she will have him in the bedroom before he’s had the chance to remove his second boot, and their dinner will burn—and ordinarily, she wouldn’t care, but this dinner is special. 

It takes such iron will to speak of her desire (to acknowledge it, though it possesses the room as a dense and undeniable pressure, like the way the sky feels before a storm rolls in) and not as yet act upon it; already the thought of what she will do to him is luring her away from the stove. 

She wants him vulnerable, ravaged, _begging_ —

“What if,” she begins, slowly, “I wear it, and you let me try that other thing we talked about, too?”

“What other— _oh_.” It had been some time since they’d discussed that other matter with any seriousness, but by the way the color rises in Julian’s face (he is so pretty when pink) it seems that he has not forgotten. To the contrary: his throat is dry, and he can already feel the muscles of his abdomen tightening at the thought. “I… yes. That sounds— _yes_.” 

She grins, lifts her chin. “Okay. Good.” She replaces the lid on the box and saunters forward. He is irresistible like this, so she allows herself the slightest indulgence: she runs her fingertips over the heat of the blush in his cheeks (radiantly warm, like summer sun-kissed earth) and down his neck, fussing with the collar of his coat. “But after dinner. The lobsters are already on the stove; if I leave them now, they’ll overcook.”

“Lobster?” he asks in disbelief, and it’s a delightful coincidence: ‘ _cooked lobster_ ’ is the exact shade of his face, flushed red with the promises of what will come later. 

He should not be so surprised. Julian has spent the day hunting down his particular gift, but he is not the only one who has planned surprises. The lobsters—spiny things, different from the ones Nadia used to serve in the palace—were _almost_ too expensive. But the pop-up apothecary they have set up in this valley has seen a busy spring. Truthfully, she has hardly been able to keep up with demand; they are not wanting for coin. So Aredhel had splurged, able to justify her purchase for one reason alone: 

One year ago to the day, Julian broke into her shop, and asked her to read his cards. 

(Like the river winding to the sea, they have found one another again; she has resolved never to let go.)

She nods in affirmation. “They’ll be a bit longer, yet. Go wash up. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

Julian wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close. “Perhaps that bottle we traded for in the village at the foot of the Moonglow Mountains?” It was a rare vintage, sticky and sweet, and cool on the tongue without having to be chilled; the grapes had been harvested under the light of a blue moon. They have carried the bottle with them since late winter; they have been saving it for a special occasion.

This, tonight—between the elaborate meal and the intimacy that will follow—seems very much like a special occasion.“Sounds perfect.”

“Excellent,” Julian grins, and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. “I’ll go wash up while you uncork.”

He pulls away, taking the parcel under his arm and heading up the stairs; he’s so eager he doesn’t even bother to pull off his second boot. But as soon as he turns Aredhel reaches out to give him one quick, fresh slap on the rear. 

Julian _yelps_ in surprise—for a fraction of a second Aredhel fears he’s going to lose his footing and tumble backwards—but then he steadies, and when he peers over his shoulder at her his ears have gone red… and he’s biting his lip.

She can't help but laugh, tossing him a sultry look in return before she waltzes back to the kitchen. If one little spank is enough to get him riled up, she can hardly wait to see what he’ll look like later, when the occasion call for such glances.

 

 

Outside, summer has come to Drakr. Blue-grey mountains, mined for their salts and other minerals, tower on either side of the green valley they have come to live in, and even in the heat of summer, their crowns are capped in white. Beyond the kitchen window, green hills roll and recede, cascading down to the valley floor, colored here and there with small, bright wildflowers. The smell of them perfumes the air of house, even when the windows are closed. From the kitchen window, Aredhel can see all this, and the modest trappings of what passes for their ‘yard’: a small herb garden, the posts she uses to string up their laundry, and the well from which they gather their fresh water, the water with which they bathe.

Julian gallops down the stairs, humming to himself, before swinging out the door and into the green hills. Aredhel recognizes his song as one of the tunes the musicians in the Rowdy Raven used to play, though she doesn’t know the words, herself. It is a jaunty, cheerful melody, and Julian carries it with panache as he walks over to the well and pulls up a bucket of water. He balances the bucket on the lip of the well, and tugs his shirt over his head, exposing his freckled shoulders and the swath of auburn hair on his chest… which thins as it trails downwards, along his abdomen, before dipping below his trousers.

From the window, Aredhel whistles. 

Julian ceases his humming at once, turning to search the windows of their cottage for her face, smiling when he finds—then he favors her with a signature waggle of his brow. 

But with the promise of what is yet to come, even he cannot resist the chance to display himself, to put on a show, to tease her. (He knows, once dinner ends, the power to do so will be out of his grasp.) Again, he pulls his lip between his teeth. He holds her gaze with a provocative stare as he hooks his thumbs into the band of his trousers and drags them—slowly, teasingly—down his hips, over the curve of his ass. 

“Like what you see, love?”

“I like it well enough.” With a devilish grin, Aredhel plants an elbow on the window sill, and plants her chin in her palm. “Would like it more, if it weren’t for all that troublesome clothing blocking the view.”

Julian needs no further encouragement; slowly, navy cloth peels back from thick thighs, falls below his knees… one leg at a time, he steps out of them, revealing the slender and shapely muscles of calves.

All that beauty, outside. The majesty of the snow-capped mountains and the verdant green of the valley. Plump, fat clouds drifting overhead, and the river snaking down the hills and into the alpine lake at the foot of the town below. 

And yet—in all that beauty—the only thing Aredhel really wants to look at is him.

Once he is naked—utterly bare—he takes the bucket in his hands and lifts it above his head. The well-water sparkles in the evening sun as it cascades from the bucket’s lip and meets Julian’s head, his shoulders, drenching his red curls—

“Oh, _ff-fuck,_ it’s cold—”

His arms shake; his whole bodies folds around itself, chasing his now warmth. He nearly drops the bucket onto his head along with its contents; it rolls away, precariously close to the edge of the hill’s crown, and Julian has to go chasing after it, stooped, still hissing. 

Aredhel stifles a laugh with the back of her hand, then turns away, back to the stove. Best to give him his privacy—and what dignity he still has—as he washes up.

 

 

When Julian comes back inside, his curls are damp, his skin still cool from well water _._ He crosses the kitchen to where Aredhel stands by the stove and tucks a blue wildflower behind her ear, then bows his head, pressing a kiss to her neck.  She revolves in his arms and returns his kiss with one of her own, sealing her lips around his.

“Mmm.” When she pulls away, Julian hums, dragging the tip of his nose against hers. “You taste like wine.”

She nods in the direction of the table. “Help yourself. I set out a glass for you.”

She thinks, perhaps, that this will provide him a distraction—she is wrong. Julian is an absolute _menace_ in the kitchen. He drains half his glass of wine in a single swig before setting the glass on the countertop, freeing his hands to fumble over Aredhel’s hips, wrapping his arms around her waist, his chin tucked against her shoulder. He tangles himself around her like a vine, murmuring a constant stream of praise: how good dinner smells, how eager he is to taste it, ‘ _my wife, my talented wife._ ’ 

It makes her preparations twice as hard, but Aredhel does not mind. In all this time, she has never once tired of being held by him.

Really, though, she should have known; he’s probably only more handsy (and not less) after his first taste of the Moonglow Wine. It’s a strong vintage, and though Julian's usually got a pretty high tolerance for alcohol, something in this wine in particular goes right to his head. (She suspects, secretly, it is wormwood.) All it takes is a sip and Julian can feel the wine working through him, a sweet tingling in his limbs, a warmth in his stomach. 

He's such a tease; he sticks a finger into the butter she's clarifying, and before she can smack his hand playfully away, and he looks at her, eyes lidded—enticing—as he licks it from his fingertip, pink lips puckering around the digit as he pulls it out of his mouth. 

Even just that—the gesture alone—has her considering leaving the food to burn and the pots to melt. If he's teasing her, its because he’s taunting her—really, he is only begging to be touched. 

But as soon as he draws his finger out of his mouth and licks his lips he _grimaces_ and, his little performance concluded (illusion, shattered) reaches around her back for the glass of wine he’d left on the counter, bringing it to his lips to clear the taste of butter from his mouth. 

Again, Aredhel cannot help but laugh. But she loves him like this—silly, light-hearted—she wraps her hand around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss before he’s had the chance to set the wine glass back down. The golden liquid sloshes precariously in the glass as she draws him close, but neither of them pay it much mind, not even when it jumps the glass’s rim and trickles, sticky-sweet, down the stem and over Julian’s fingers. It does not matter, not with the way Julian is groaning into the kiss, and the urgency with which he presses against her. Hastily he sets the wine glass aside and draws her body to his until there is no space left between them. 

But before he can lick his way into her mouth Aredhel pulls away, pressing up onto her toes, leaving a trail of quick, sharp bites along his neck before she whispers in his ear:

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” she tells him, and pressed so close she feels the arousal that tightens in his core at her words, close enough to hear the ragged little gasp her words drag out of him. “To fuck you until you’re incoherent, babbling, _begging_ me to let you come—” 

Julian's answering moan is cut off by the merry chipping of the kitchen timer—the food is finished. 

Without another word Aredhel extricates herself from his arms, leaves him flushed and panting as she plates the food and sets the table. His hands are trembling when they reach for the stem of his wineglass; he watches her through the bowl as he drains it. She is pleased to see the front of his trousers have tightened considerably. 

Dinner, then, is wasted on them: they are lovesick, and the hunger they suffer from cannot be satisfied by food or drink. They eat only as slowly as they are able, which is not very. When the last of the wine has been drained from the bottle, they toss the dishes in the sink (Aredhel is sure she hears one of them crack, but cannot bring herself to care) and Julian pulls his wife close and kisses her so soundly she cannot tell if it is the kiss or the drink that is making her head spin. 

“Please,” he begs in the space between them. “Please. I've been good, haven't I? I've been patient.” 

She nods in consent, and Julian wastes not a moment longer; he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the stairs.

 

 

The bedroom here is smaller than the one above her Apothecary in Vesuvia. The ceiling slopes: they are in the attic, among the rafters of the house. Aredhel says that, without Albert’s old garden above them, she feels as though they are sleeping in the place where this house dreams, if a house dreams. It is, perhaps, another way of saying that she is glad to no longer be sleeping eight feet beneath a layer of dirt, wrapped in the ghosts of an old life. It is a confession: _I am alive, I am living, here, with you. I breathe here as I never have breathed. You came to me like spring._

They have not been here long and (itinerant, wandering) have no idea how long they will stay; the room is sparsely furnished. There is a bed, a pair of nightstands, a washbasin, a wardrobe for their clothes. A sofa sits before the rose window to the west. It is summer, now, (again, as when they met, and re-met) and the sun sets late—past dinner its light falls upon the room in hues of coral and tangerine. It paints a wild and fiery halo around Julian’s auburn hair: to Aredhel, he looks like something sacred, like an idol in a temple. 

(But do not misunderstand: as hallowed and numinous as he looks, she does not fear to touch him. He will only shine brighter when his face is twisted in pleasure; defiled and profaned, he will only look more splendid.)

When she has shed her clothes (when Julian has, clumsy with haste, pulled her free of shirt, skirt, brassiere) she stands bare before him, skin like the first white flowers to split the ground in spring, braving the frost thaw. The ink of her tattoos winds around her wrists, moons nestled between her shoulders, and isn’t she _something?_ Something else, something Julian often doesn’t have the words for. His throat feels dry watching her stalk towards him, her strength hidden behind curves that have swelled rounder in the comfort of their honeymoon—no more running from guards, or ghosts, or goats. 

Julian sits at the edge of the bed, lifting the lid from the box as she reaches for him, her fingertips tracing the line of his shoulder. He dips his head to kiss her wrist, then holds the harness out for her between his legs. She steps into it, one foot after another, like a nymph toeing into a pool in one of those absurdly romantic paintings he’d seen in Aransia. She runs her hands through his hair while he tightens the straps, and slots the phallus in place; when he is through, he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the softness of her stomach. His hands round her hips to the curve of her ass and squeeze, drawing her closer.

“Not yet,” she hisses. “ _Behave._ ” 

A light admonishment. He has strapped her in, and she is ready, but he is not. Still as gentle as the chastisement is it bears a hint of command—Julian colors, nods obediently, and loosens his grip on her hips. 

He is so eager. So needy. It is very difficult, not to simply part his legs and give him what he wants. But he is not ready, and the preparation she feels responsible for giving him is only a part of it.

There is magic, yet, to invoke.

She places her hand on his shoulder, and pushes him onto his back.

Julian, too, has softened: no more running from the law, or his past; no more skipping meals. The stomach of his skin is stretched less tautly over the muscles of his abdomen, but still Aredhel can see those same muscles twitch and tremor when she runs a hand down his chest from collarbone to pelvis, when she traces a lazy spiral on the skin above his pubic hair. Contemplating. Imagining the lines she will trace. The requisite ink has been prepared while he washed, and sits, a viscous evening-cobalt-blue in a bowl on the table beside the bed. 

“Are you sure you want this?” she asks, her voice hushed, still tracing triskelions on his stomach. “We can just use the toy tonight. We don't have to try both that and the magic.”

But he nods (in _that_ way, a desperate little jerk of his head, with his eyes lidded and lips parted and panting) and so she takes the ink from the bedside table and the tool of sacred bone (decorated with long lines of inscribed invocations, carved in the tree-language of her people) to draw the sigil. 

(It is an old spell, found in one of the least read of Albert’s old tombs. A healing spell, or so it is supposed to be, to aid in muscle recovery after a particularly physical injury—a tear or a sprain. It had taken Aredhel approximately two seconds before she decided to modify it for recreational use.)

When the ink first meets his stomach, Julian risks ruining it; the ink is cold, and he is ticklish, and the fitful tremble of his laughter means her lines go all wobbly and she has to wipe him clean and start over again.

“Hold still,” she says, and Julian’s eyes snap up to meet hers, his body stilling obediently. He drinks in the look of concentration on her face as she draws the elaborate details of the sigil ( _will she look that way when she is fucking me?_ ) and the way the harness hugs her hips, marvels at the flash of dying sunlight on the phallus as it leans against his thigh—and he hardens at the promise of its girth, thinking of how it will fill him. 

The thought alone enough to make him stiffen. 

When the ink of the sigil has dried and Aredhel has finished her spellwork, Julian pulls her forward and down, drawing her face to his for a kiss. And as her mouth meets his the phallus presses between their bodies, dangling from the harness around Aredhel’s waist. 

The phallus is curved, hard and clear as a diamond; along its length runs a thin spiral in royal blue. It is… large, too. Certainly not the largest thing Julian has ever taken, but close. And against his stomach, the glass is cold.

The shiver that runs through him at this slight touch of the toy is like the way the wind shakes each leaf of a tree in a ripple, and all of him shudders, trembles, as he reaches for her in hunger and deepens the kiss.

(He is never sure what or who he has to thank for his change in luck. A free man, someone to love, his favorite dish for dinner. Aredhel ready to fuck him senseless into the bedsheets. Whatever or whoever it is, he will send up his pleasure cries like prayers and supplications of thanks. He is so, so grateful; so lucky. 

_It is not luck_ , she would tell him. Though they are kissing and she is not speaking still he can hear her voice in his head, providing this gentle correction. She has reassured him so often of his own worth, his own accomplishments, that her voice has become a part of him: _You were brave. We worked for this life. We earned it. It was not luck._ )

All this time Julian has waited so nicely—through washing, through dinner—but now he is desperate, feet arched to push his hips flush against hers, his cock seeking whatever friction the softness of her abdomen can give him. (She has become, in all this time away, _delightfully_ soft.) His hand wanders in wonder over the leather straps that leash the glass to the cradle of her hips; when his erection finds the curve of the glass and drags along its length—tickled by that ridge of blue that spirals along it—Julian whimpers. He wants, and _wants_ —he bucks his hips against her and groans pitifully when she only pulls away from him. 

Aredhel’s fingers seek out the jar of oil on the nightstand; when she returns, settling herself between Julian’s legs, her fingers shine. Slickened, they slip between Julian's thighs, but she has barely pushed the tip of her digit into him before he is huffing impatiently, heels digging into the blankets, pushing his hips eagerly against her forefinger. 

“More—don’t be gentle, you know I can take it—I've been thinking about this, about _you_ , all dinner—”

Aredhel flashes him a smile, smooths a hand down the tight muscles of his thigh. “And you've behaved admirably, despite that,” she murmurs. Gingerly, she works her fingers into him, her pace slow and careful no matter how insistently Julian’s hips push against her hand. She does not give him the second finger he seeks—not yet. “I have been thinking of you, too. _Itching_ to touch you. But you will have to wait a little bit longer—can you do that, for me?”

Julian peers up at her, the whites of his eyes no more than slender crescents beneath their lids, heavy with pleasure. “What if I can’t?”

Aredhel smiles, tilts her head to the side as she curls the finger that is buried inside of him. 

“Then I suppose I will have to hold you down.”

And how can he resist that? It is not punishment she offers, but _incentive_. 

Julian looks her dead and the eye and groans, rolling his hips against her hand. The sound he makes is so filthy, with his face flushed (he is _so_ eager) and his eye sparkling with the mischief of his disobedience… Aredhel lets him continue, a little longer than she usually would, relishing every breathy pant and ragged gasp as he thrusts his hips and she curls her fingers inside of him.

But then she does reach out and plant her free hand on his hip, holding him down against the bed. 

“Did I misunderstand?” Aredhel croons, squeezing his hip. “Did you want to fuck yourself on my fingers, instead of being fucked? I can arrange that—”

“No,” Julian is quick to huff, so breathless and hurried it is hardly even audible. “No, I want you, between my legs—I want to watch you—”

“Then _behave_.”

“Or else?”

Aredhel gives a throaty laugh. She leans over him to whisper against his ear, “Or else I will tie you up so you can’t do a thing—can’t even touch yourself, never mind buck your hips—and I will have you watch me as I bring myself off with the toy that you bought for yourself, and I will leave you alone and untouched to ruminate on your bad behavior.”

It is not an idle threat—nor is it one that Julian would utterly detest, were it actualized. But today, he has no interest in such games. He wants what he was promised in the kitchen: ‘ _I can’t wait to fuck you, fuck you until you’re incoherent, babbling, begging me to let you come._ ’ Gradually, he releases the tension in his body; Aredhel feels him go pliant beneath her, and only then does she ease herself back between his legs. She lubricates her fingers a second time, then slips both fore-and-middle finger between his legs.

With her free hand, she coats the toy.

Julian is not fragile: this, he often insists, with his words or with his gestures. But they have not done this before, and she has no desire to hurt him… not too badly, anyway (not more than he welcomes.) She wants to fuck him the way he likes, the way he wants, rough and hard, but her phallus is only glass. She will not feel him clench around her, the way she can when she fucks him with her fingers. It will be harder to tell what he likes, what he doesn't, if she cannot feel his body around hers. 

He will have to tell her. 

If he had his way she knew he'd sink down around the toy at once, that he’d relish the pain of being not-quite properly prepared, the good ache of it—but she wants him to be able to walk tomorrow, after all, and the toy is not the only consideration. 

“You remember our word?” she checks with him, for the hundredth time. (On this, she has always insisted: _I will give you what you ask, but we will be safe. I will not hurt you more than you can bear_.) But he is hardly paying attention, head thrown back, teeth working his bottom lip as her fingers stretch him open.

“Julian.” She slides her fingers out of him, and he gives the most beautiful fluttering sigh, the sound of it like a leaf turning in the wind as it descends to the ground in autumn. “Ilya.”

His eyes snap open, meet hers. And his face is drawn into a grimace (his pleasure, absent, so cruelly revoked) but when he sees her and hears his name, his expression softens into something almost bashful. 

“You remember our word?” she repeats.

“Yes,” he breaths.

“You’ll use it if- if it’s too much, if we need to stop?” she asks, cupping his cheek with her hand, running her thumb over the rise of his cheekbone.

Julian turns his head, captures the knuckle of her thumb gently in his teeth. Then he presses a kiss to her palm, before turning his face up to face her again.

“Yes. I’ll use it if I have to.”

“Okay.” Aredhel takes a deep breath, arranges herself more comfortably between his legs. 

She places her hand on the base of the glass, and guides it to his entrance; Julian gasps at the touch of it alone. And when the toy presses and enters him he throws his head back against the pillows, eyebrows knit as he lifts his hips to urge it in farther. Never once does he break eye contact with Aredhel, his grey eyes (hazy with need) holding fast to hers. When the toy has sunk into him fully, leather of the harness meeting his taint, he exhales slowly; a shudder of pleasure runs down his left leg.

Just like that his breathing becomes shallow, labored. Aredhel stills, letting him adjust to the feeling of the intrusion. 

“Is it too big?” she asks, sliding a hand up his chest. 

“No, no,” he is quick to reply, shaking his head. “Its perfect.”

She watches him for a moment, drinking in the look of him with his legs spread wide, so exposed in front of her. Then, “Can I—”

Julian nods. As she pulls out—slowly—he brings his hand to his hair and clutches a fistful, tugging at his auburn curls as his whole body curves, pursuing the girth of the glass even as she withdraws it. 

That will not do. He wants to be fucked—she will fuck him well, the way he likes, at her mercy. So when the glass has been nearly withdrawn—only the bulbous tip still caught within him—she places a hand on each of his knees and lifts his legs, guiding them into the air and over her shoulders, taking away his leverage. When she is finished the back of his thighs meet her chest, the knees of his long legs hovering somewhere around her ears, his calves resting on her back. Then she leans forward, over him, sliding easily back in—Julian covers his wail with the back of his hand. Before the sound is fully swallowed by the air of their bedroom (suddenly so thin) she is driving into him again, slowly, sinking to the hilt. 

The moan he gives—this one he does not catch in his hand, and it trembles as it fills the room. 

…It is admittedly a little awkward at first. She has to figure out how to angle her hips, the best way to thrust. But when she reaches up and gets a grip on his shoulder, this grip is precisely what she needs to drive in and out of him in one fluid movement. 

And with his legs drawn together as they are, he is tighter. She can't feel it, but she must know—must have known from experience herself how to tangle his limbs to maximize the pressure and friction of every delicious thrust. His cock is trapped between his thighs and his stomach where he cannot touch it, but with each of Aredhel’s thrusts it brushes—teasingly, insufficiently—against the skin of his own thighs.

“Red.” Her name rides on the back of a groan, drawn out. “Red, it's so good.”

“Is it?” she asks, soliciting not praise but instruction. “Or do you want it slower, or faster, or—”

“Hahh- _harder_ ,” he manages between frantic little pants. 

She obliges; she tightens her grip on his shoulder, clutches the muscle of his thigh in her other hand to keep his legs steady, and drives her hips forward against his with an audible smack. 

Julian’s body curls in response, a tight little ’s’ shape, his head bowing far enough forward to nearly kiss against Aredhel’s, held as it is between his knees. Enraptured, Aredhel watches the dance of delight and surprise flickering across his face, before the novelty of that one sharp thrust wanes and he is pushing against her, eager once more. He is so beautiful, so vulnerable, so wholly and utterly hers; ‘ _my husband._ ’ She will protect him, cherish him, care for him; she will give him precisely what he needs.

Her hips find a rhythm, sharp and fast; the room fills with the sound of her hips slapping against his asscheeks with each quick thrust, interspersed with the sound of her name on his lips, said with praise, like an invocation, a prayer.

“ _Aredhel!_ ”

There's naught in it for her but the sight of him, but that is plenty. _Gods_. She has always loved him like this—messy, panting, needy—since the first time she slipped her fingers inside of him, but this is different. More often than not when she fingers him her eyes are only at waist level, her mouth preoccupied with the taste of him, tongue riding each twitch of his swollen cock. She has not often had the pleasure of looking at him. 

But here he is, spread on the bed, exposed beneath her. She can see each ripple of pleasure as it seizes him, the way his stomach goes taut when she thrusts _just_ so, the tortured expression on his face that says _not enough, never enough, more_ —greedy. His knees knock around just above her ears, his thighs lean on her chest, and each time Julian’s legs clench with desire Aredhel can feel it, can see the way the skin pulls when they flex. She watches the abuse he inflicts on his lower lip, the failed attempts he makes to hold back his choked and broken cries (though it matters little—they are far enough from town here that he can shout as loud as he likes.) 

Her eyes widen to drink in the sight of him, her lips just parted. The sight of him is a _gift._ The hand she rests on his thigh rises to hold it steady before she turns her head and presses a kiss—and then a short bite—to the flesh of his inner thigh. 

“Are you close?” she asks him. And she is a _vision_ : her hair messed, flyaway hairs loosed from her bun framing her face in gold, a sheen of sweat on her cheeks, her arms flexed as she holds him fast. 

Is he? Close? He feels like he has been on the edge since he came home. Her eyes on him through the window, her hands on his waist—the very thought alone of what was to come—

“Yeah, yes, I’m—” but the words get swallowed in a whimper when she grinds her hips against his. 

“Okay,” she breathes, “okay.” And she releases his shoulder, and her hand ghosts across his collar, runs down his chest, following the trail of auburn hair down, downwards towards his cock… but her hand stops just short of it, covers instead the ink of the sigil she has painted on his abdomen, rising over his pubic hair like a full moon. It glows faintly under her touch, not yet activated but eager to respond to her magic. All the while she fucks him, watching his face closely for the twitches and tells she knows by now are indications of his peaking pleasure. 

“ _Please_ ,” Julian implores, and she can see the way his arms have begun to quiver, hands tightening their grip in the sheets. “I'm close, I’m— _oh_ —”

Aredhel lays her hand flat on his stomach; the sigil shines. But Julian does not see it. His eyes are squeezed shut— _the sound he makes!_ —a pleasure breaking over him that makes it difficult to breathe, let alone see. 

At the touch of her hand on his stomach the whole of his lower body clenches at once—it feels like a door inside of him slamming shut. It begins at his core, but his whole body follows: legs locked tight, toes curled, and he feels _so tight_ , ass squeezing around the toy that still swells and recedes and fills him, knocking prostrate with each thrust. Each caress of the smooth glass coaxes him to higher peaks of pleasure, and Julian chases each one until it has flooded him so fully he cannot speak, cannot think, cannot _feel anything else_ but this shuddering squall, this chaos of pleasure…

…when it has passed… when it has left him, Julian is breathless, shaking, spent. Trembling in the wake of… whatever that was.

But between his legs, he feels his cock, still trapped, _still rock hard_ —he has not leaked so much as a drop.

And he does not really _come down_ from it, either, not the way he does when he spends and spills—the whole of him is tingling, buzzing with sweet after-ache but _tight_ , tight. He feels greedy, and unsatisfied; his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he turns his eyes back to Aredhel above him, ready to beg for more, _more—_

_…_ but all pleas scatter, a flock of birds taking flight in golden field, launched and _gone, gone_ at the sight of her over him. She’s brought her hand to his thigh and is just beginning to knead the muscles of his leg, and she’s watching his face… _concerned._ Trying to tease out whether his look, his silence, his stupor is one of pleasure, or overstimulation—making sure it wasn’t too much, or too rough, or… and, oh, he loves her. _He loves her._ In times like this, maybe, most of all: reminded by the attention and focus in her gaze that no matter how she treats him, touches him, fucks him, (hurts him, if he asks) at the center of all her affection is a wealth of tenderness he’s never known in a lover.

She is his life, his home, _his wife;_ she is the safe space where he may lay down his head and rest, protected and cared for.

“You alright?” she asks.

“ _‘Alright?’_ ” Julian repeats, and he’d laugh if he had the strength for it. Instead he favors her with a loopy grin, lazy and languid, the best he can manage in his current state. “I’m more than alright, I’m fantastic. Right as rain, me.” 

The slight pinch of her features loosens, relieved by his confirmation. She turns her head to drag the tip of her nose along the inside of his thigh, just above his knee, then kisses his leg. 

A thought occurs to Julian; she’s been kind enough to check in with him, but this is new for both of them… or at least, it is the first time they’ve done something like this together. “Are you—are _you_ enjoying yourself?” he asks, a faint note of hesitance in his voice. “Is it good for you, too?”

Aredhel’s eyes widen. Her shock alarms Julian, a little, before an incredulous grin begins to work its way across her features. She raises both her hands to his knees and holds them steady (torn between the aftershock of his orgasm and the persistence of his arousal, they are still shaking) ducking her head out from between them before she swings them off her shoulders and to the side. Then she leans over his crooked body, reaching to press a kiss to his jawline—stretching to kiss him, she drives the toy into him ever so slightly, and Julian gives another little fluttering, silky moan, as her mouth charts a path across his jaw and his chin before it finds his mouth takes it in hers.

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that,” she whispers against his lips, her hand scratching along his thigh from knee to hip. “If you had any idea… how _perfect_ you look, how… gods, Julian, the _look_ on your face when you came…”

The praise wrenches a shallow gasp from his throat. “Was it really that good?”

“It was— _is_ —that good,” she says, sliding her hand up from his hip across his chest, delivering a rough pinch to his nipple before she reaches up to cup his face. “I want to see it again. Want to make you come again. Can I? Will you let me?”

“Yes,” Julian breathes, with a quick nod. “Please, yes…”

“Yes,” she echoes, with a nod of her own. “But slower, this time… I want you wild, gasping, begging before I let you finish.”

Julian is curved, crooked beneath her, knees squeezed together—though not so tightly as his eyes squeeze shut against the pleasure, beginning again, her thrusts honey-slow and lazy. His teeth find his bottom lip to inflict more abuse upon it (it is already red, swollen—he’ll split it, probably, before the night’s out) but even with his mouth seamed she can hear the low whine that vibrates in his throat, drawn out and plaintive each time her hips meet his. 

This… it is slower, gentler, and perhaps not entirely what Julian had in mind. She knows what he wants: to be fucked fast and dirty, his ass in the air, his face pressed into the sheets, her fingers tugging at his hair. She will give him that, but not tonight. Tonight, she does not want to be without the sight of his face. Wants to see what makes his jaw clench, his breath catch… when the tears begin to roll down his cheeks, when his pleasure moans turn to desperate sobs, when he begs her to let him finish, she does not want to miss any of it. She wants to watch him, wants him to watch her; wants to touch him. 

For Julian this fresh change is no less pleasurable. The angle has altered completely and that alone is enough to make him coil in fresh pleasure with each delicious thrust, but the best part about it _by far_ is how much more of her he can see. Oh, he _loved_ being fucked with his legs against his chest, but they hid her—he could only make out her face. No longer is she hiding behind his legs. Like this—crooked—he can see each of the tendons of her neck, the elegant swoop of her collarbones, her strong shoulders, and all of these things tightening and stretching with each thrust as she rolls into and against him… and the gentle sway of her breasts and she slides in and out of him, setting a slower and more tender rhythm.

She can kiss him, like this—she can touch him. And she does. One hand still steadies her thrusting, looped between his thighs and using her grasp on the muscle as leverage, but the other squeezing down his arms, ghosts across his chest, pinches his nipple. 

And he can touch her—more of her, anyway. His fingertips brush the roundness of her abdomen with reverence, feel the muscles clench with each thrust. 

And she is beautiful, beautiful—the way her whole body moves when she fucks him, beautiful—but he wants more. He wants to touch. “Closer?” he asks, and she nods, planting a hand on the bed and leaning over him, warm breath ghosting over his cheeks before her tongue darts out to lick the shell of his ear, and he grasps at her arm, holding it tightly, holding to anything, _please, please, don’t let it end just yet—_ but her tongue is warm, and her free hand is meandering along his chest, alternating touches that are barely there (hardly more than her fingertips disturbing the hairs on his skin, the barest hint of a summer breeze) with hard drags of her nails that leave him pressing into her touch, pursuing that hint of pain until its gone.

“I love you,” he says, breathlessly, and the hand on her bicep underscores the urgency of it with a quick squeeze. 

Aredhel stops—looks at him ( _drinks in the sight of_ him)—swallows.

“I love you too,” she breathes, and punctuates the sentimentality with another roll of her hips that hits him so good it has him curling off the bed, surging up towards her, every muscle in his core pulled tight, squeezing around her cock in his ass—

“Julian,” she breathes, clutching his shoulder for emphasis. “Julian, I’m so wet just looking at you. Just watching you get fucked so well… I’ve soaked the straps through with my slick.”

It pulls a wretched sound from his lips. He wants to know, wants to feel, wants to _taste_ that wetness—feel her glistening against his mouth—but he knows her, knows she won’t let him. She will give him no space to give: tonight, he receives. 

Still, he wants to touch—he props himself up on his elbow as she continues to fuck him, slow and relentless, but he reaches between her legs… his fingers are inches from her lips but already the flesh he touches is slippery, dripping, oh, _gods, she’s not lying_ —and just the thought of that, how turned on she is, fucking him, reducing him to a mess—it leaves him tight and tingling. “Oh, _fuck_ , you’re—“

But his next cry swallows up whatever sentiment he’s trying to express when she gives a harder thrust, and his head falls back into the pillows, his hand coming to rest on his stomach.

“Wet,” she says, finishing his sentences. “I’m so wet—I just want to fuck you so well—you take it so well,” she praises, and leans over to taste the pleasure cry he releases when she thrusts into him again.

“It feels so good,” he cries. His hand snakes down his body to her waist, and he wraps his fingers around the strap of the harness, guiding her thrusts, urging her faster. “You’re so—so good, I can’t believe we waited this long to—“

“We’ll make up for it,” she promises, smacks her hips against his with a thrust that pushes prostrate just right and sends every part of him shuddering in ecstasy. 

“Next time,” she swears, between thrusts, “I’ll bend you over the counter in the kitchen, your chest against the cold butcher block, my hand firm on your back—or tugging at your hair—”

“Yes,” Julian gasps, “yes, my hands tied behind my back—”

“—or against the wall, cock pressed to the paint so you can’t reach to touch yourself—“

“—god, Aredhel, yes, _anything—_ ”

“—or on my back, on the bed—I’ll let you ride me. Watch your cock leak and slap against your stomach as you bounce in my lap, fucking yourself on the toy until you can’t anymore—”

“I-I'm going to come again,” Julian sobs, fingers tightening their grip on the harness, his last handhold on the world against the onslaught of pleasure that threatens to sweep him away and down the stream into incoherency, fucked out ’til he’s stupid and mute and half-starved for air from all the panting and choking that each thrust draws out of him. 

But she won’t let him go—not like that, not just yet. 

When he feels her fingers dancing over the dried ink, he gives another desperate sob: “ _Please._ ”

The sigil blazes.

His second orgasm hits him harder than the first: it is so powerful it is almost frightening. All of him twists into a tight spiral, and the world doesn’t spin but something inside him _does_ , an endless pirouette of pleasure that builds and builds each time she smacks her hips to his and the toy presses into him—he shudders and curls around himself, and he is _so tight,_ he can feel every turn of the toy, the dull press of the bulbous tip as she drives it, relentlessly, into him—and it knocks the wind out of him so badly he cannot even moan, can’t find the air to do so, his only sound a choked groan as the world dims and she tosses him back into the tempest.

And she hardly gives him the span of a heartbeat to recover, to regain control of himself; her hand is on his knee again, and he shudders, still trembling with pleasure even as she parts his legs. And oh, the _delicious_ way his body twists around the toy, still fully sheathed inside of him—she spreads his legs as wide apart as they’ll go, a hand on each thigh, holding them down to the bed.

His back curves, shoulders pressing into the bed and hips pressing urgently after hers; she fucks him harder, deeper than she’s done so far—and he is nothing but strangled sounds of encouragement and need, ‘ _yes, please, yes_ ’ and he can’t see the light on his abdomen but he’s not sure, really, that he ever _stopped_ coming—each of her thrusts sends a rush of something through him that leaves him lightheaded and giddy and but he is insatiable, alternatively too breathless with pleasure to make a sound or too desperate to stifle, and he feels so full, so full and so wild—his body is hers, now (he surrenders) to do with as she pleases, to leave him whining and unsatisfied or to draw him out along the edge until he’s so hard and needs to come so badly he forgets all else, his name included—

His toes are curling, his abs clenched so tight they’re beginning to hurt, and if he doesn’t come— _really_ come—soon, he feels he might actually die. But, ahh, who is he to argue? It is surely a far better way to go than hanging….

Still, he’s eager, audacious enough to reach down for his cock—until, roughly, she smacks his hand away.

He answers with a whine.

“Please,” he begs her, cracking open his eyes to look at her. “Let me come—for real this time—“

“For real?” she asks, and at once her hips still. And Julian sobs—bucks his hips after hers weakly until she pins them against the bed, and the noise he makes is absolutely piteous. “Were the other times not real enough for you?”

He gasps, clenches his muscles around the toy in some desperate pursuit of pleasure—it only half-works, he whines, low and weak—“No, no, that’s not what I meant—”

“Should I remind you how _real_ it is?” she asks, her hips maddeningly still, but her fingers tracing across his waist, over to the dried triskels that mark him—the sigil flares at her touch, and his abs twitch in pleasure-pain at that glimmer of light alone—

“I can’t,” he pleads, finding her eyes, begging her. “Please, it’s too much—”

“Too much pleasure?” she asks. “But you’ve never complained of too much pain. Why should this be different?”

Slowly, she drags the toy out of him, and the feeling of it going makes him want to weep. He runs his own hands up his chest, pinches at his nipples. 

“Please, please, I need it, need to—Aredhel, you feel so good, spreading me _so good—_ I won’t, I can’t wait anymore—”

For a tortuous moment she only considers him, eyes lidded, breathing hard. Then, with a smile, she slides the toy back into him. “Alright,” she croons, above his frantic heaving, “since you asked so nicely.”

Then she trails her hands down the path of auburn hair on his stomach, and wraps her fingers around his cock.

The whole of him tightens, draws inward around her touch, like a flower closing its petals to the night—his heart leaps into his throat. It is so good—and he is helpless, writhing, _loud—_ this touch, after not being touched!—and when she drives her hips into his and starts to fuck him again he is gone.

His third orgasm hits him so hard he thinks he’s blacked out before he realizes he’s only squeezed his eyes shut again, his mouth open, throat vibrating with the desperate sounds of mixed relief and euphoria that soar through him at his release—his body is one massive, tectonic spasm, and he’s lost the reins entirely, being tossed in a tempest of pleasure, a storm of an orgasm that (surely) makes men wage wars and write symphonies. He knows, now, why Troy fell; he would not think twice about leveling a city if it stood between him and her, his wife, his _love._ The pleasure steals the breath from his lungs; even after he has spilled the last of his seed (great pools of it on his chest) he is left trembling, aching, so spent that even each tremble that runs through him seems a great labor, every part of him throbbing. When she pulls out of him, he manages one last, satisfied hum before falling back against the bed, limp, immobile.

The only thing keeping his soul tethered to his body instead of floating up into the mountains with the fog and other fucked-out souls is her mouth on his skin, so deliciously exacting and generous, licking him from collar to pelvis until she’s sucked the last of his spend from his skin. He even manages another weak clench, a haggard gasp, when she wraps her tongue around his softening cock (still so sensitive though it has hardly been touched, and it _hurts_ and it’s good) and chases the feeling of her mouth before he settles, weak and weary, into the sheets.

He can hear buckles clicking, feel her weight on the bed between his legs… the dull sound of the harness being placed aside, somewhere, before she stretches herself out at beside, propping herself up on her arm to better look at him.

(To her, he looks… so beautiful. _Her husband._ Not a crease of worry or self-consciousness on his face, only complete and utter bliss, chasing a steady breath. No room in him for anything else but the buzz of pleasure that has left him wrecked in its wake, like a seashore after a violent storm. All smashed bits of ships and other flotsam along the ocean’s edge, the glow of a golden dawn brushing its fingers along such treasures as only the most violent of storms could drag forth from the dark sea depths. He is beautiful, he is perfect; she will want nothing else for as long as she lives.)

She lifts a hand to stroke the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, before pressing a gentle kiss just between his brows.

Julian feels… torn. Knows he should thank her—reciprocate, in some way—but everything aches so sweetly. Instead he only fumbles blindly at his side, eyes still closed, grasping in the dark until his hand closes around hers. 

She squeezes him back, a reassurance clear as the dawn. ‘ _Catch your breath, love, take your time._ ’

When his breath does finally steady—when he’s able to crack his eyes open and seek out her face beside him—she is smiling, still stroking his hair back from his temples.

“Hello,” she says, cheerily. Then she leans forward and presses a kiss to the far end of his eyebrow, before settling her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for the present. I think we’ll get a lot of use out of it.”

He can’t help it—he knows, _knows_ how wet she was, felt it himself—but he just wants to be sure, needs to be sure. He does not want this to become a regular part of their intimacy if it is selfish: “Did you really like it, so much?”

Aredhel nods, biting her lip. “You were… _very_ hot.” Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, then sweeps across his chest, fingers fanning outward, brushing his cool, slick skin. “You’re okay though? I wasn’t too rough, or…”

“You… you were _fantastic,_ ” he says, with his most absurdly grateful grin. “ _Thank you._ Really, that was…” he bites back a smile, gives a weak little groan. “I’d like to kiss you, but I don't think I can move, honestly.”

She gives a light laugh then lifts herself again on to her elbow, only long enough to lean over him and press a brief kiss to his lips.

He hums as she lowers herself again, nestling her head against his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he gives her an apologetic look. “I can’t feel my tongue,” he admits, his words coming slow and languid. “Or my toes. Or anything, really, for that matter, I’m just sort of… hazy, and tingling all over.” His eyes crinkle mischievously; he gives her hand a squeeze.

“Roll me on my side, would you?”

Her face scrunches up in a soundless laugh. “Oh, come _on_.”

“No, really,” Julian insists, grin widening, thought is soft, an exhausted echo of the sly one he often wears when he teases. “I’m limp as a fish; I’m too well fucked. If you want to be fingered, you’re going to have to work a little for it—”

“I’ll give you limp,” she hisses, lowering her hands to his waist, just beneath his ribs where she knows he is most ticklish.

He flinches away from her touch, trying to twist away as his laughter bubbles up in his throat. “Haha, ‘Red—Aredhel, stop—”

“Oh, you seem to be moving just fine n—”

But he’s rolled himself over, onto his side, and before she can finish her taunt he’s taken her face in his hands and he kisses her. She stills, hums a little in relief as she presses her body against his. His tongue parts her lips; when his hand creeps between her legs, she gasps.

He’s weak, he aches all over—useless, mostly—but he can manage this. A stroke of his finger, a twist of his wrist, circling her clit.

If there was any doubt lingering in his mind, it has been banished: she is so wet, her sex swollen… he hardly needs to touch her at all. With only the slightest encouragement, she’s bucking her hips against the heel of his palm, her hand balled into a fist against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck.

“Tell me,” she whispers, into the dark space of his collar. “Tell me how much you liked it.”

“ _Loved_ it,” he corrects, pressing his lips to her ear in a kiss. “You were awfully talkative about what I looked like, but you? Oh, _Aredhel_ ,” he sighs, and at the sound of her name the pace of her thrusting quickens. “You were a vision. So generous, so attentive. The way you looked at me—I would have given you anything, let you have me any way you wanted—”

“ _Every_ way,” she moans against him. “I want you every way, like this—buried inside of you—fucking you slow from behind with my hand on your cock, or suspended from the ceiling—”

“Gods, ‘Red, _yes_ , we’ll do it, I’ll let you,” he parts her folds, slips his middle finger inside of her; she gasps, rolls her hips more fervently against his hand, “anything, anything you want—”

“Julian,” she breathes, “Julian, I’m going to come.” 

And she bites down on his neck when she does, and when her thrusting becomes erratic and unsteady he follows her with the heel of his hand, grinding it against her clit, coaxing her through her own orgasm until her shuddering subsides and she collapses beside him, widening her legs only far enough for him to pulls his fingers out of her and rest his hand, gently, on her hip. 

 

 

Night has fallen fully, now, and the bedroom is cast in blackness. The moon casts only just enough light to make out the walls, the furniture.  In the dark, the memories come so quickly, like how the slightest breeze stirs the surface of a still pool….

All those months ago she told him, ‘ _That impossible life? The one you think you can’t have, that you don’t deserve? I’m going to give it to you._ ’ And she has. He is so happy with her, wherever they go—Drakr, or Hjallnir before that (Nevivon next, come fall)—complete in a way he feels he has never been. With her, he feels no longer broken, or worthless, but whole.

“What do you think would have happened? If I had not broken into your shop, that night Asra wasn’t home.”

She cracks an eye open, smiles at him lazily. “Do you think things would have been so different?”

“Might’ve been. Wouldn’t have caught a lamp to the face, for one.”

She chuckles, low in her throat, then shakes her head, “No.”

It is dark; he feels her fingers brush his face before he sees them, and tilts his head into her touch.

“I gave you my heart a long time ago, long before you came back to Vesuvia—before even you left. I would have found you, again, no matter what.” She sighs, sweetly, and runs a hand through his hair before her fingers settle on the side of his neck. “With you, I belong. You are mine to protect, to cherish, to care for. You are my happiness. My life. And now that I have, I will not let you go.”

“Promise?” he asks, cheekily.

“Promise.”

And then, tangled together in the dark, their breathing slows. Sleep takes them facing one another, fingers interlaced, Aredhel’s toes pressed against the tops of Julian’s bare feet.


End file.
